


But You're Human Tonight

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Class (TV 2016), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bi!Clara, Crossover Pairings, F/F, Flirting, Insults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8357839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: If pressed, Clara Oswald would've denied that she had a type. She'd have emphasised that she wasn't one for pigeonholing people by their appearance or their personality. But in reality... an abrasive alien who's fond of conversing in casual, overt insults, and who happens to work with her? Definitely her type. Definitely a bad idea.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is entirely based off [this Tumblr post of mine.](http://universe-on-her-shoulders.tumblr.com/post/152151133295/no-but-imagine-clara-having-to-work-with-miss) Sorry not sorry.

Clara breezed into the staffroom, a coffee clutched in one hand and a pile of marking tucked under her other arm. She’d been up late again, hunched over her Year Ten class’s essays on Jane Austen, and she felt grumpy and irritable at the thought of having to hand them back today, and the inevitable complaints that would follow as students discovered their marks. 

Sinking into her usual seat, she fanned them out across the table in front of her, scowling at the marks inscribed in the top left corner of each essay in red pen. Some exceptional, some terrible, some mediocre. A fairly even spread, but the average was still below what she expected of her students. 

“Are your Year Tens still proving that they’re bungling halfwits when it comes to irrelevant Regency literature?” came a voice from behind her, and Clara turned to glare more deeply at the speaker, before pasting a falsely bright smile onto her face. 

“Good morning to you too, Miss Quill.” 

“Good morning, you vertically challenged excuse for an English teacher. Shame you can’t find a new boyfriend in those dreadful Jane Austen novels of yours,” Miss Quill smirked widely as she took the seat opposite Clara, resting one high-heeled foot atop the pile of essays. “I’m sure you’d love to write yourself into one of those novels. No more moronic children – except the ones you’d inevitably cripple yourself giving birth to. Then again, you are rather wide – I’m sure those hips would be perfect for child-bearing.” 

“How are you this abrasive first thing on a Friday?” Clara wondered aloud, half-exasperated and half-tempted to engage in a battle of wits. “I mean, it’s honestly a gift.” 

“Most would agree with you, but then most people are idiots,” Miss Quill examined her nails pointedly, an expression of patented disinterest on her face. “This entire school is full of morons with barely two brain cells to rub together. No motivation. Nothing.” 

“I’ve heard your loud opinions on the matter, yes,” Clara said drily. “Several of my students have complained, actually-”

“Complained about what? Me being honest with them? Bless the little darlings, it’s like they can’t face up to the truth. They want it handed to them on a plate, they want to be fawned over and told they’re special; they’re not special. They’re stupid, and they need to be told that the world isn’t all happiness and rainbows.”

“They’re _teenagers,_ Jesus, you know what it’s like to be that age!” Clara’s smile slipped from her face as she glowered furiously at the physics teacher, feeling the need to argue in favour of her students.

“I don’t recall it, no. Nothing other than actually – oh, what’s the expression they favour on their silly little social networks? – having my shit together. I was organised. I was on point. I was _lethal._ ” 

“You make yourself sound like some kind of assassin.” 

“Freedom fighter,” Miss Quill corrected automatically, then added for Clara’s benefit: “Freedom from the tyranny of a ridiculous school system, that taught me… well, almost nothing.” 

“And yet here you are.”

“Yes, here I am. Stuck back in an institution I despised. With yappy little colleagues who can’t get their ridiculous eyeballs under control, or transmit notions of romanticism to idiotic fifteen year olds. Like it’s _difficult._ ” 

“Like you’re having any more success teaching them about static electricity, or whatever it is you so enjoy waxing lyrical on during your classes. Or rather, stay silent on. I’ve heard you don’t even _teach_.”

“You say that like using my time in alternative ways while the little idiots teach themselves isn’t a prudent idea.” 

“You’re a _teacher._ ” Clara said, scandalised by the other woman’s admission. 

“And you’re shaking with rage. I’m _terrified._ The tiny little teacher can’t handle the fact that she’s been played by the system to think she actually has to _stand up and teach_.” 

“How do you even still have a job?” 

“Because I get results. Because I’m impeccably qualified.” Miss Quill’s mouth turned up into a defensive snarl, and Clara felt a small stab of pride that she’d caused such a loss of composure. “Because my students do well from teaching themselves.”

“I’m curious,” Clara mused. “What do you consider to be more important than actually teaching? _Bake Off?_ Erotic literature? Tinder? Come on, every teacher has flaked off teaching at least once. Usually while hungover. What’s your poison of choice?” 

“Tinder?” Miss Quill gave Clara a look of disdain. “Somewhere between that and your silly little romance novels, it’s really no wonder you’re still single, dear. Men on Tinder are invariably venereal-disease-ridden steroidal gym rats who are only after one thing.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“And you haven’t got any closer to marriage.” 

“Oh, please,” Clara scoffed. “Marriage is an antiquated idea linked to notions of oppressing women and binding them legally to men in a way that was designed to limit their social power.” 

“That’s probably another contributing factor, you know.” 

“Question. Answer it. Now.” 

“Cats,” Miss Quill confessed against her will, surprised by the admission. “Photos of cats.” 

Clara began to laugh. “Cats? You? That’s… unexpected, to say the least.” 

“What were you expecting?”

“A different kind of pussy, perhaps,” Clara smirked, enjoying pushing her colleague’s buttons. “Certainly not photos of cats. That’s… impressively early noughties.” 

“Early _what_?” 

“Never mind,” Clara tilted her head to one side, contemplating the issue at hand. “You know, seeing as Tinder isn’t working out for me, and you’re deprived of any of the right kind of pussy, why don’t we go for drinks?” 

“You seem very certain that I’m inclined one way and not the other. What makes you think I’d want to spend time with you outside of work? I don’t habitually pass the time with midget-like Blackpudlians.” 

“You’re still talking to me,” Clara smirked. “You’ve never spoken to anyone for this long before. You usually just insult them and leave.” 

“Speaking of leaving…” Miss Quill looked around them at now-empty staffroom, brow furrowing at the lack of their colleagues. “Where _is_ everyone?” 

“Class, probably,” Clara chuckled, scooping up her marking and getting to her feet. “You’ve made us late. Now are you going to say yes, or not?”

“ _I_ made _you_ late? You’ve distracted me with your wittering, it’s hardly my fault you love the sound of your own voice,” Quill smiled a little, against her better judgement. “But fine. Tonight. Eight o’clock. Cosmo, Hanover Street. Don’t be late, or I’ll pick up someone else.” 

“You sound confident that you’ll be picking me up,” Clara raised an eyebrow, enjoying the game. “So, challenge accepted.”

 

* * *

 

Clara sat at the bar, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt and sipping the lurid cocktail she had ordered minutes before. She checked her phone for the hundredth time, watching the numbers flash up and inwardly groaning. 7:37. She was obscenely early, but she figured it was preferable to the alternative. 

“I don’t know what’s more radioactive: that drink or that lipstick,” Miss Quill slid into the seat beside her, still wearing the same outfit she had been earlier, running her eyes over Clara in a practiced appraisal. “Anyone would think you were making an effort.” 

“Anyone would think you weren’t.” 

“I don’t need to make an effort. I had you hooked from this morning, so that outfit was clearly working, so why would I change for you?”

“You seem very certain you’ve hooked me,” Clara teased, silently challenging Miss Quill to rise to the bait. “I don’t know why. Acerbic comments aren’t usually my vibe.” 

“Yes, I’d noticed by way of that simpering soldier you used to favour spending time with.” Miss Quill leant over the bar and ordered a glass of wine with a practiced manner, taking a long draught when it was handed to her. “He never seemed very much your type.” 

“And what _is_ my type?” Clara asked, taking another sip of her cocktail, curious to see what her colleague made of her. 

“You need somebody to challenge you. Somebody to keep you in check. Somebody with a _firm hand_.” 

“And that would be you, would it?” 

“If I can keep thirty students in silence for two hours while they study black holes, I think I can manage a pint-sized English teacher with terrible taste in clothes.” 

“My taste in clothes is superb,” Clara said defensively, looking down at her carefully-chosen outfit. “At least I wear colour.” 

“At least I don’t dress like a children’s entertainer. I could think of infinitely better variants for your clothes.” 

“Such as?”

“On my bedroom floor.” 

Clara snorted, almost spilling her drink in the process. “Oh my _god,_ that needs so much work. You did _not_ just use the world’s worst chat-up line on me.” 

“Who says I was trying to chat you up?” Miss Quill drawled, looking at Clara over the rim of her glass. “That was an invitation.”

“Buy me another drink,” Clara said decisively, draining the last of her cocktail. “And maybe I’ll consider it. Perhaps make a little small talk?” 

“Small talk is an overrated feature of this planet’s social strata.” 

“ _This_ planet?” Clara quirked a single eyebrow at the turn of phrase, barely surprised by the revelation. “Well now, aren’t you quite the dark horse?” 

“Shouldn’t you be calling the army? Or the zoo? Whatever it is you humans do when faced with my kind?” Quill’s hand trembled infinitesimally, betraying her fear, and she took another sip of her wine in an attempt to steady herself. 

“And your kind would be?” 

“You’re not running or screaming at the news.” 

“You’re not my first. Answer the question.”

“The Quill.”

Clara shrugged a little, as though to say “never heard of them.” 

“You wouldn’t have heard of us, we’re far beyond your infantile little race. But you do seem… knowledgeable about such things as aliens,” Miss Quill chanced, grinning wickedly. “So who _was_ your first?” 

“An ancient idiotic space man from the depths of time itself. Loves a silly outfit and an adventure.” 

“Present tense?” 

“Very much present tense,” Clara confirmed, smiling fondly. “But not-” 

“Let me guess, you don’t have a thing for aliens in general?” Quill smirked, her composure regained. “My, you really are quite the surprise. Who’d have thought that dull little Miss Oswald was cavorting with aliens alongside her Austen?” 

“Who’d have thought that Miss Quill would _be_ an alien?” Clara looked up at her coyly, determined to play the game. “Makes sense of quite a few things.” 

“Such as?” 

“Oh, the attitude, the sneering, the teaching methods. Or lack thereof.” 

“You can talk.” 

“Yes, I can. I’ve got an _actual_ PGCE. What’ve you got? The intergalactic qualification in educating small humans?” 

“No, really, you talk far too much.” Quill leaned over and kissed her before she could respond, one hand coming up to rest on the back of Clara’s neck with surprising gentleness. When she pulled away, she looked down at the human, smirking only slightly as she challenged: “Back to mine, on one condition: less talking.” 

There was a moment’s silence as Clara considered the proposition, before deciding against her better judgement: “agreed.”


End file.
